\ 




ONIE! 



^;^.,.- 



A TALE OF LONDON 



IN FIVE ACTS: 

ACT I.— "THOU SHALT NOT STEAL." 

ACT 2.— "RESCUED P'ROM TEMPTATION." 
ACT 3.— "THREE YEARS LATER." 
ACT 4.-" STILL A STRAY." 
ACT 5.-" 



/ 



'J'he earlier parts oj" this play are derived somewhat from an old novels but 

its Dramatic Incidents and construction are entirely original, and 

as such, all persons are cautioned against infriiigement 

0/ the author' s and proprietor' s right, as 

de/ined by the laiv ofcopyright. 



BRO O KLY N, N. Y. 
1873- 



Kiitered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873, by William A. De Long, in the Office 
of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. • • 



^-^F COIVCJ^ 




CHARACTERS : 

Mr. Sidney Lovewold, Mr. John Weston, 

Mr. Augustine Prowl, Gilly Glory, 

Mr. Watson {a poUcemaii), John (a servant). 

ONIE GRAYFORD. 

Bella Weston {yohn Weston's daughter), 
Mrs. Watts, 
An Old Woman. 



Scene — London. Time — Modern. 



The action of the Play extends over a period of fo.ur years. 



) 



^s 






O N I E ! 



^Ik^Ct 1. 

THOU SHALT NOT STEAL.' 



SCENE I. — Great Suffolk Street — Night. House R. 2 E. with 
porch and steps facing audience. Practicable door ; Bay 
windoxv, tvith blinds facing L. Blinds closed and light seen 
through. Music inside. Gas-lamps lit. Gas-lamp L. 2 E. 
At opening. — People pass to and fro. 

Enter GiLi-Y Glory, from L. He peers around — looks in house, 
window, then stands, hands in pocket. 

GiLLy. Aint this awful ! I never in my whole business ca- 
reer saw such times. Hard ! Hard aint no name for it. I've 
picked three pockets to-night, and there warn't nothing in 
none of 'em. I don't know how a fellow can get an honest 
living in this way. I've tried ^j/^rj)/ thing with 'equal success. 
I took to politics — picked a man's pocket while he was casting 
his vote for another politician to pick it ; found he had just 
paid his taxes and didn't have anything left, Then I turned 
artist — became a musician — borrowed an orchestra, or rather, 
a banjo, from a mercantile friend — Simes, the pawnbroker- 
tried to play a tune on the corner and pass 'round raj hat. 
Could't extract a note out of it ; the music was too flat, or else 
the people were too sharp to appreciate it. Then I became a 
manager — formed a partnership with a lady artist — my friend, 
Onie. She got up a concert on the corner, and I took in the 
money — attracted large houses, or crowds — made a respectable 
fortune, something like ten-pence everj^ day. True to my pro- 
fession, I divided equall)^ — I kept all the money and let the 
star do all the work. These terms my artiste partner didn't 



4 ON IE! 

like, and left me. I started alone again, and as I have alrcadj' 
said, picked three pockets and am none the richer. Onie 
went into the match business, and is trying to be honest. What 
an idea! Ha! ha! ha! Just as if she could make a living 
selling matches ; brimstone 's too cheap. {Looks off r. i e.) 
Here comes Watson — an arm of the law, who always acts as if 
he was suspicious of me, although I never could imagine why. 

Enter Watson, r. i e. {He is a rough, red-faced policeman.) 

Wat. {gruffly) What's up now ? 

Gil. Nothing ! I was only thinking the folks in there 
{poijiting to house) might take pity on a fellow and share their 
banquet. 

Wat. Well, if they do, I'll send you word. 

Gil. {rueftdly moving) Thank 3'ou — I can take a hint. 

Wat. Come — be off. 

{Gilly jHoves off k. i e. Watson slowly off\.. i E.) 

Onie. {outside, l. u. e.) Lights ! lights ! Congreve lights ! 

{Re-enter GiLLY, R. i E.) 

Gil. I heard Onie's voice then. I haven't seen her since we 
dissolved partnership. Now, if I could only persuade her to 

develope her talent under my management again. I'll try. 

— (moves quickly towards L. u. E. ajid runs against Onie as she 
enters. She pushes hi??t back violently^ 

Onie. {indignantly) What's the matter with you? 

Gil. {7'ecovering himself) Give me a moment — ^allow me to 
collect myself. 

Onie. {lifting out broken boxes of matches) All scrunched ! 
You've done for my lights this time — sure enough ! 

Gil. {aghast) Your what ? 

Onie. {half crying) Can't you see — my matches — every kiver 
gone, and you cant pay either. 

Gil. That's a fact — but fortune jnay smile upon me, and then 
I'll discharge the liabilit)% with good interest. So never mind 
— don't cry— but tell me : how's trade? 

Onie. Slow — very slow. I haven't sold a box. Folks is 
promised so much brimstone in the next world, they don't 
seem to care about investing in an}' in this. (Gilly latighs.) 

Gil. Onie, let me advise you : — Leave off vulgar trading, 
and become an artiste. Give concerts on the corners of the 
street. With your talent, you'd make a little fortune, {aside) or 
I would. 

Onie. A fortune, {sharply) Where's my share of the money 
you got the last time I pla)'ed on the corner? 

Gil. Your share. Where's 7?iy share, is what Ld like to 
know. When the concert was over I had nothing. 



ON IE ! 5 

Onie. Nothink ! I saw people putting money in the hat my- 
self. 

Gil. Of course they did ; but see here (shows hole in hat) my 
hat's got a hole in it, and as fast as pennies were dropped in 
the)' dropped out again. Some mean fellow put them in his 
pocket. 

Onie. Oh ! {turns aivay.) 

Gil. Will you try concerts again, Onie ? 

Onie. No ! — the terms don't suit. 

Gil. {aside) Onie's too sharp, and evidently doubts my hon- 
esty. I never could deal with people who have no contidence 
in me. {Exit r. i e.) 

{Music in house. Onie peeps in window. The music affects 
her ; she commences shtcffling her feet, and finally dances. 
Dances off and returns to window, peeping again. This is 
repeated two or three times tmtil music ceases ; she then 
leans on window-sill, looking in. Re-enter Watson, L. i E., 
patrolling, sees Onie, and touches her roughly on shoulder.) 

Onie. {turning) Oh ! Stop that, please ; )'ou hurts. 

Wat. What do j^ou want here ? 

Onie. Nothin' particular. 

Wat. You'd better go home. 

Onie. {tzmrling herself about) Watt's won't let me. You 
know Mother Watts? 

Wat. {gruffly) Yes ; I know her. 

Onie. She's down on me, cause I can't pa}'. No trust, you 
know. 

Wat. You can't stop here. Move on, is the word now. 

Onie. {leaning) Lor' bless you, this is the most comfortablest 
doorway in the whole street, so if you don't mind I'll just take 
a nap until that young feller comes : he is the onl)' one in the 
whole world who speaks pleasantly to me, and I'd wait all 
night for one kind word or smile. You're new to this beat, 
ain't you? 

Wat. P'raps. 

Onie. You used to do Kent Street, and stir up Mother 
Watts. You locked her up once, don't you remember? 

Wat. Yes ; I remember. Are you going ? 

Onie. If you won't let me sta)', ol course I am. {Moves a 
step, and then turns back.) I sa}', they've got a jolly kick-up 
here ; Old Weston's gal's buff-da)'. I wish I was her ! Did 
you ever see her of a Sunday? 

Wat. Come, come ; don't talk any more, but go home, I've 
had enough of you. {Pushes her.) 

Onie. All right ; why didn't you say so afore. {Slowly moves 
off L. u. E. Watson watches her, and then exit r. i. ^., patrol- 
ling. Onie re-enters, watching Watson, and chuckling.) 



6 N I E ! 

He's not everybody, tho' he thinks he is. {Lays down itt door- 
way. Latighter aftd mtisic in /lotise^ Oh ! What fun they're 
having. {Goes to window and peeps?) Don't I wish it was my 
buff-day, and somebody had something to give me. Oh ! don't 
I — now the}'' re dancing again — {dances to music) — What larks ! 
{Suddenly stops ; seats herself in doorway.) I wonder if /ever 
had a buff-daj'. No ; I don't believe I ever did : there was 
onl}' one who knows an)'thing about that, and she has gone 
far, far away. {Buries face in hatids and leans against door ; it 
opeits, and Bella Weston appears?) 

Bella, (jn white party dress) I'm sure I heard Sidney. {Sees 
Onie.) 

Onie. {gazing at her in amazement?) It's onlj' me ; I got under 
the porch to lie down. You left the door ajar, and it giv'd way 
when I leant against it. 

Bella. Who are you ? 

Onie. Only a stray, Miss ; nobody minds me. 

Bella, {kindly) Oh, yes ; somebody minds yow. — / do ; wait 
a moment. {Exit in house.) 

Onie. {clasping her hands) Heavings ! Hain't she beautiful ; 
an angel all in white. 

Re-enter, Bella, from house, with cakes and apples, which she 
gives Onie. 

Bella. Here are some goodies for you ; father wouldn't let 
me have you in the house, so I brought them here. 

Onie. {dancing with excitement) Oh ! Miss, you're an angel, 
you are. Just to go and be so kind to a poor girl. It isn't 
everybod)' who is kind to poor girls thej' don't know nothink 
about. 

Bella. More's the pit}'. I think you are the girl Sidney 
sometimes speaks of. 

Onie. He speaks of me ? 

Bella. He hasn't come yet. 

Onie. {picking up an apple) Oh, I know that ! 

Bella. How? 

Onie. Leastways — that is — {confused) — I've been here a con- 
siderable time and ain't seed nothing of him. 
{Voice in house calls "Bella.") 

Bella. That's father ; I must go in. Good-bye ; perhaps 
sometime I'll have you come and see me ; we may be able to 
do something for you. {Exit in house?) 

Onie. Good night ! good night, dear angel. {As Bella 
passes in, Onie kisses her dress. Door closes. (Jnie leans 
against porch.) Why, oh, why is she so beautiful and happy, 
and I, so miserable and wretched ! {Lies down i?i doorway.) 

Enter Sidney Lovewold, l. i e. 



N I E ! 7 

Sid. Well, here I am at last, and late for Bella's party. 
" Better late than never" — that's a trite consolation, with a 
little dash of flattery. I'll make amends for vcvy tardiness 
with this little gift. {Takes small paper parcel from pocket, 
then returns it.) Girls, they sa}^, are always susceptible to a 
handsome present ; however, it will go a long waj? to excuse 
me, if I don't succeed in making an ass of myself before I get 
rid of it. I don't know that I am over bashful, but I can safely 
say, at the very point when I am most in need of courage, is 

just the moment when I have the least. If well, I must 

chance it. {Crosses stage ; goes to run up steps, stumbles over 
Onie.) 

Onie. {Jumps up) Oh ! Gimini ! 

Sid. Hello! I didn't know anybody was hiding. Why, my 
child, what are you doing here ? 

Onie. The young lady in there was so good to me, and I 
wasn't quite used to it. I was kinder thinkin', Mr. Lovewold. 

Sid. You know my name ? 

Onie. Oh, I knows everybod}' about here. {Suddenly.) I 
loves her, Mr. Lovewold. 

Sid. You love her? 

Onie. Yes ; {giggling) so do a^ou. Oh, you needn't stare, 
I've seed you together. Be happy ; I gives 3'ou my blessing. 

Sid. Well, I'm much obliged to you. {Feeling in pocket. 
draws out handkerchief, and drops the paper parcel co7itaining 
brooch. Aside) Pshaw ! I spent all the money I had with me 
for Bella's brooch. {Aloud) Too bad — not even a penny. 

Onie. It isn't the pennies I keers about so much from you, 
it's the voice and the smile. Why, I could live on one kind 
word a week. 

Sid. Poor fare, my little waif. However, I shan't forget you, 
trust that. It's quite late, you must go home now. 

Onie. Why, I ain't got no home ; wish I had. 

Sid. And your mother? 

Onie. I never had no mother. {Laughs.) I don't mean 
that exactly, sir. {Sadly.) My mother is 

Sid. I beg your pardon ; I'm wrong. I couldn't know, of 
course, that your mother was — 

Onie. Dead ! Yes, that's it. Dead and gone, sir ; but that's 
nothing to 3'ou ; I'm bleeged to take care on myself. 

Sid. {aside) There's something good in this girl. {Aloud) 
I've taken a fancy to you. 

Onie. So havo I to you, sir. 

Sid. Then it's mutual, eh? 

Onie. I s'pose so, tho' I don't know 'zactly what moo\.m\ 
means. 

Sid. Well, I'd like to help you. 

Onie. Would you, sir? 



8 O N I E ! 

Sid. Suppose I set 3'ou up in some neat little business — say 
vegetables or bouquets, would you leave all bad associations 
and live better? 

Onie. Oh ! tr}' me. 

Sid. I'll think it over, and see you about it again. 

Onie. Oh, thank you, sir. [Exit Sidney in house.) 

Onie. I wonder if he means it. No ! he'll forget all about 
the kind words to the poor stray when he is with her. I've 
heerd such things afore : words is cheap and promises cost 
nothink. Yet, somehow I feels he meaned it. Well, Onie, 
this ain't getting )rou a night's lodging and a supper. I guess 
I'd better be making my way to Wattsey's, though I don't be- 
lieve she'll let me in, 'cause I ain't made a penny. {Crosses L. 
Sees paper parcel.) What's that! {Mtisic ppp.) Something hard 
in a paper ; did he drop it ? {Opens paper.) Gold ! A gold 
breastpin ! Oh, how awful grand I'd look in this — shall I 
keep it? No! {Crosses io house.) Yes, I will. No, I'll ask 
him if it's his. Why should I ? He's a sham like all the rest, 
and Mother Watts will give me money for it. {Half turning 
toward house as if reasoning ivith herself. Wats<in enters^ 
R. I. E., crosses, slowly patrolling. Onie is moving off. Scene 
Closes. 



SCENE II. 

Enter Mr. John Weston and Sidney, r. i. e. 

Sid. I asked you out here, Mr. Weston, because I wanted to 
have a serious talk. 

Wes. {aside) Got in debt, I suppose, and wants to borrow a 
few pounds quietly. 

Sid. Well, to make a long story short, Mr. Weston, I have 
taken the liberty of falling in love with )'Our daughter. I tell 
you plainly that that's the state of my feelings, and if you have 
anything to say against it, or me, why 3'ou can clap on the ex- 
tinguisher and no one a bit the wiser. 

Wes. What does Bella say? 

Sid. I've — I've only said a few words to her ; I didn't know 
what jiwz/r wishes were. 

Wks. {aside) Humble and deferential to paterfamilias, like 
all young hypocrites who have this terrible ordeal to pass and 
are doubtful of the upshot. ( 7"o Sid.) Well, and what's to 
keep her and )'ou — my money? 

Sid. Not a farthing of it, sir. I wish to work on and wait for 
her. I have every hope, and I think I see my way clearly. I 
won't ask you to let her marry me until I can show you a 
house of m)^ own, and money beside. 



N I E ! 9 

Wes. Why didn't you wait till then? 

Sid. Why, because a fellow wants a hope to live on. 

Wes. Don't be in a hurry, young man, the home of your own 
hasn't turned up yet, and Bella's very young : she may see 
some one else to like better. 

Sid. I hope not. 

Wes. Kx\di you are young and may see some one else, too. 

Sid. Oh ! Mr. Weston. 

Wes. Ah ! it's shocking to think of, but these awful events 
do occur. You had better speak to me of this a year from 
now. 

Sid. But 

Wes. Here's Bella coming, wondering I suppose, why we 
left the party. 

Enter Bella, r. i e. 

Bella. Why, Sid, one would imagine you was making love 
to father, leading him away for such romantic walks. 

Sid. I have been wanting to say something to him for a long 
time, and 

Wes. I guess he wants to say it all over again X.o you, Bella, 
so I'll return to the house. {Exit R. i E.) 

Sid. I have been telling 

Blela. {coquettiskly) Have j^ou ? 

Sid. Yes ; can't you guess what ? 

Bella. I ! — No. 

Sid. Then I'll tell you. Let us walk this way {crossing to- 
ward L. H.) Wait a moment ! I beg pardon, I forgot all about 
my present — here's — here's a little brooch I bought, and with 

many happy returns of the day, and {turning pocket inside 

out, aside) Stolen by jingo ! 

Bella. What's the matter, Sid ? 

Sid. {aside) I knew I would make an ass of myself, and I 
have succeeded admirably. 

Bella. Tell me, Sid, has anything serious happened ? 

Sid. I am very sorry, but I had a present for you, and I've — 
lost it. 

Bella. You had better call a policeman, if you suspect any- 
bodjr. 

Sid. I must ask you, Bella, to return to the party, while I go 
in search of the lost brooch. {Hands her to R. i E.j I will join 
you again, shortly. {Kisses her hand. Exit Bella.) 

Sid. Now, to see our policeman. {Looking off) There is 
the very man : I say — Watson ! 

Enter Watson, l. i e. 

Wat. Anything lost, Mr. Lovewold? 

Sid. Yes ; Miss Weston's birthday present — a brooch — has 
either dropped from my pocket or been stolen. 



lo N I E ! 

Wat. Stolen, more likely ; — anyone stop you ? 

Sid. No one, -with the exception of a little stray, whom I 
often see about our house. 

Wat. You've hit it, sir ; I saw her near here only a few mo- 
ments ago. 

Sid. Oh, no ; I hardly suspect her, Watson. 

Wat. Well, if it's the one I mean, it's a precious bad lot 
she's with ; they might make her do anything. 

Sid. I'd rather not think that. 

Wat. It won't do any harm to inquire ; so if 3^ou'll accom- 
pany me to identify property, we'll call on Simes and Mother 
Watts. 

Sid. I'll never believe that until 

Wat. I open your eyes, sir. (Sidney a«^ Watson Exit, l. i e.) 



SCENE III. — Mrs. Watts' Lodging House. — Door c heavily 
barred. — Door and Steps leading up, R. 3 E. — Fire-place {juith 
red glow to show across stage) R. 2 E. — Bunks, L. H. — Rug 071 
floor before Jire- — Stools and table. — Sauce pan at fire. — 
Several persons asleep in bunks. — Mrs. Watts discovered, 
seated before fire. 

Enter Gilly down steps, R. 3 E. 

Mrs. Watts. Well, Gilly, what news to-night ? 

Gil. Nothing new : the same hard fortune seems to cling to 
me, and I am under the painful necessity of again requesting 
you to practice arithmetic on the slate and increase my score 
in return for lodging in your charming apartments, this even- 
ing. 

Watts, {sharply) Does the slate pay my bills? 

Gil. Now, my dear Mother Watts, don't you be hard upon 
me. 

(Knock c. D. They start.) 

Watts. Who's that ? 

Gil. Some faithful guardian o.f the public peace wishing 
to see that all is safe, I suppose, and suggests to me that I bet- 
ter retire {moves toward bunks) ; so if you'll just keep your 
back this way while you admire the grate for a moment, 
Mother Watts, I'll make my toilet. {During this he goes to a 
bunk, and as he looks in a female voice cries oiii, " Ah !") I 
really beg your pardon, Madame, it was with no intention to 
intrude 

Female Voice, (in bunk, gruffly^ Howld yer tQngue, and 
go to bed ! (Gilly goes to next bunk, and, seating himself on 



O N I E ! II 

edge, commences his toilet. Loud knocking, C D. GiLLY dashes 
in bunk, and covers up)) 

Watts. Who's that ? 

Onie. (outside) Open the door, and you'll see. 

Watts, {unbars door) Well, what may you want? {Bars 
Onie's entrance?) 

Qnie. {pushing her away, and enters) Oh ! Let me in can't 
you ? 

Watts. You'd better pay up what you owe first. 

Onie. Oh, 1 can — do you see that ? {Shoivs brooch.) 

Watts, {taking brooch) You got it honestly, I suppose ? 

Gil. {pokittg head out of btmk) That old woman's sarcasm is 
simply sublime. 

Watts. I takes your word for it ; you allers was a gal who 
spoke the truth. 

Onie. Never mind that. 

Watts. It's a sham affair — say eightpence for it ? 

Onie. It's gold, Mother Watts, and worth a lot of money. 

Watts, {looking it over) Very brassy ;- — say eightpence and 
a bit o' supper? 

Onie. What sort of supper? 

Watts. Hot supper. 

Gil. Hot supper ! I wonder if they will invite me to join 
in the feast. 

Onie. It's worth a sight more. 

Watts. Well, I'll go upstairs and ask Simes about it. / 
don't think it's safe to keep (inoves toward steps, and then down 
close to Onie), and )rou'd better let it go. 

Onie. Very well ; where's the money ? 

Watts, {gives money) Here's fourpence — a penny for to- 
night and thuppence j^ou owe me — that's eightpence, and I'll 
give you the supper. No one can S3.y Mother Watts didn't 
keep her word in anythink she undertooked. 

Onie. I — I don't care so much about supper as I did. 

Gil. Confound it ! If they wouldn't give me an invite, they 
might allow a fellow the consolation of a smell of supper. 
{Covers up head) 

Watts, {busies herself at fire — looks at Onie) I only wish I'd 
been 'arf as smart as 3'ou when I was young. 

Onie. {sorrowfully) I only wish I hadn't found that brooch, 

Gil. {looking up) Well, I'm blest ! When anybody becomes 
so depraved that they despise wealth, all hope is gone. {Goes 
to sleep) 1 

Watts. Why? 

Onie. I didn't mean it. I said I never would again. Don't 
you remember when Mother died here how she went on, just 
at the last, as to what was to become of me, and didn't I say 
I'd grow up good, and 



12 N I E ! 

Watts. Ah ! Your mother was too fine a lad}' to come down 
to dying here, and such a one to go on about it sometimes. 

Onie. And then I 

Watts. Now, I don't want to hear anythink about your 
goings on, and the sooner you turns into bed — if you don't 
want the supper — the better. 

Onie. {looking at bunks) I don't see any room over there — 
they're as full as they can stick. 

Watts. Take the rug, gal, and have it all to yourself, here 
by the fire. 

Onie. {lying down on ritg) Well, it's not so bad. I say, you 
know old Weston ? 

Watts. What, in Suffolk Street? 

Onie. Yes. He's got a part)^ to-night, and I've been a lis- 
tening to the music. Oh, my ! they just have been laughing, 
and I've been laughing m3^self to hear 'em. {Coiling herself up 
in rug.) I often thinks, do 3'ou know, I should like to be 
turned into Weston's gal, just at Christmas time, when fairies 
are about. 

Watts. What ! 

Onie. Real fairies, of course. If there 7vas any real fairies, 
I'd s-Aj, please turn me into Weston's gal, and give me the big 
doll by the parler door, and dress me like a lady in a blue 
meriner. 

Watts. Well, you are goin' on nicely. That was allers 
your fault — such a gal to jaw about everythink and everybody. 

Onie. I was going it, rather, but I ain't a bit sleepy, and 3'ou 
ain't as sharp as you are sometimes. Do you know what I'd 
do if I was a boy? 

Watts. How should I know? 

Onie. Go to sea! Get away from here and grow up 'spec- 
table — I hate Kent Street. I'd walk into the country — oh, ever 
so far — until I came to the sea, and then I'd find a ship and 
turn sailor. 

Old Woman in Bunk, {suddenly ju7npi7ig up and shrieking) 
Lookee here, you young drab, I'll skin yer, if yer can't keep 
that tongue still. What am I here for? 

Gil. {jumps up) My dear madame : would you kindly allow 
me to suggest that j'ou do what you are here iox—go to sleep. 

Old Woman, {jumping out of bunk as if in ivant of a row 
— arms akimbo) Well, the likes of that ! {Loud knock c. D. 
They jump into btinks in fright, and cover up heads. Mrs. 
Watts goes to door.) 

Watts. Who's there? 

Wat. {outside) Only me, Mrs. Watts. 

Watts, {opening doo7-) Oh, only you — come in, Mr. Watsing, 
I've no need to lock myself in while I hide anythipg away. 



O N I E ! 13 

Enter Watson and Sidney, c. d. 

No7v, what's the matter? 

Wat. (takes lantern, and looks in sleepers' faces') Nothing 
particular the matter — only something lost, as usual, Mrs. 
Watts. Where's Onie, to-night? 

Watts, (points to Onie) There she is — she's been in all the 
evening. 

Wat. [to Sidney) Is this the girl ? 

Onie. (in a lozv tone, to Sidney) Don't say it's me, please. 

Wat. That's her, sure enough — eh, young gentleman ? 

Sid. (slowly) No ; — this isn't the girl. 

Wat. Are you certain ? Stand up, girl ! 

(Onie rises, intently watching Sidney's /aif^.) 

Sid. Oh, no ; ever so much taller. (Aside.) Heaven forgive 
me the lie. 

Wat. Then we're on the wrong scent, it seems. You'd bet- 
ter go home and leave it to me. Good night, Mrs. Watts. 

Waits. Good night. (Exit Sidne}'^ and Watson, c. d.) A 
close shave, Onie. It was about that brooch, I suppose. Now 
you go to bed. (Fastens c. D. and exit up steps, r. 3 E. Onie 
sighs, and lies dotvn on rug. Knock, c. D. She juvips up 
and opens door.) 

Re-enter Sidney. 

SiD. Onie, I've let you off, but I do not intend to lose the 
brooch. 

Onie. I haven't it myself, now, sir, but I'll try my hardest to 
get it back - see if I don't. 

Sid. Perhaps it had been better if I'd told the truth : but 
you did look such a poor little thing to lock up, that I told a 
lie for once. Who would have thought you were a regular 
thief. 

Onie. I'm not a rqg'lar — I don't like thieving. I've only 
thove when I've been very, very hard druv. Oh, you don't 
know how hard it is to be sick and worn, with never a place to 
lay your head. I've been that way often and often — but that's 
nothing. When I found that brooch near your door, where 
you dropped it, I was only thinking of shelter and getting 
warm. 

Sid. (aside) She did not steal it then : — that is, as the world 
looks at it. I'm glad of that. 

Onie. I'll bring you it back, sir, leave it to me. 

Sid. (after a pause) Well, I'll trust you. 

Onie. Now, cut out of this, it isn't a safe place iox you. 

Sid. It's a bargain between us, Onie ? 

Onie. It's all right. Lor' bless you, sir, I'm not a reg'lar 
thief. They've been trying hard to make me, Watts and the 
rest, but it don't do — oh, no. 



14 O N I E ! 

Sid. You will not thieve any more? 

Onie. No, not if I can help it ; but if I can't help it, sir, I'm 
afraid 

Sid. You don't know what your next step will be? 

Onik. Lor', sir, I don't know ; I'll try my best to live honestly. 

Sid. What could 3fou live and keep honest upon? 

Onie. Threepence a day in summer, fourpence in winter. 

Sid. Well, here's a shilling to set up in business with, 
Onie, and as long as 3'ou can show me an honest face, and 
can come ever}' Saturday night, and sa)', " I've been honest all 
the week," I'll stand the same amount. 

Onie. {a7iimated) Oh, thank )'ou, sir ! and perhaps after I 
start, you and Mr. Weston will buy from me, sometimes — it's 
the business connection that budges trade up {with gravity). 

Sid. Oh, yes ; we'll buy from j^ou. 

Onie. Thank )'ou, sir ; but 

Sid. What is it, Onie? 

Onie. I hope )rou won't fret much about the brooch, Mr. 
Lovewold. 

Sid. Oh, no ; I don't fret. 

Onie. P'raps if I can't get it back, some day I shall have 
saved up enuf to pay )-ou for it. That's a good idea, isn't it, 
sir. 

Sid. Not a bad one, Onie. Think it over, and think always 
of the promise you've made, to leave 3'our bad associations and 
live honestly. 

Onie. I will think it over — I have thinked it over, and I'll 
never steal again {kneels), never, so help me. I'm a poor stra)', 
brought up in a hard school, but from this night I'll never be 
dishonest — never break that Commandment I've heard my 
poor dead mother speak of — 

" Thou Shalt not Steal !" 

(Onie on knees ; Sidney looks at her affectedly ; Watts co7nes 
in door R. 3 E. and stands on steps ; GiLLY looks on from bufik.) 



N I E ! 15 

RESCUED FROM TEMPTATION." 



SCENE. — Sajiie as Scene i, Act i. 

Enter Gilly and Mrs. Watts, l. 2 e. 

Watts. Well, Gilly, did you find the girl ? 

Gil. No — yes— that is, I saw her a moment ago, and I think 
she is coming up this way. 

Watts. Where has she been these two months, and .what is 
she doing? 

Gil. Any more questions, before you give me a chance to 
answer? 

Watts, (impatiently) Go on — go on. 

Gil. Well, to the first question. I couldn't find out any- 
thing. She disappeared shortly after the night Watson and 
the young fellow that's stopping at Weston's paid us a visit, 
and only turned up again yesterday. I don't think she's 
been abroad, tho' there's no telling anything about a person 
when they turn honest — their record seems to be lost. I don't 
think / could be missing two months and no one know where 
I was ; the police generally have my address, if no one else. 

Watts. Never mind that, what is she doing? 

Gil. Well, I'm blest ! When I saw her I couldn't help 
laughing. Why, she's turned into an amateur florist — selling 
nosegays to young gentlemen on their way to the opera. 

Watts. Where did she get the money to start with ? 

Gil. From the young gentleman at Weston's, where the 
brooch come from that you and Simes had such a good time 
out of. 

Watts. What a pity ! She's too smart a girl to give up 
stealing ; we can't allow it ; she belongs to us, and we mustn't 
let her be honest. 

Gil. Of course not ! And since she went into nosegays, she 
has a soul above us, and actually turned up her nose when she 
saw me. 
Watts. Gilly, can you steal her stock ? 
Gil. That ain't a bad idea. 



i6 N I E ! 

Watts. Steal her stock ! Sime's and I had determined to 
make a thief of her, and a thief she must be. The folks at 
Weston's won't believe her, knowing where she came from — 
particularl)' after the brooch atfair— and nobody will trust her 
for a fresh supply, so she must fall into our hands again. 

Gii.. Naturally enough. B}' jingo, Mother Watts, you ought 
to be a politician, )'our head's got too much in it to go to 
waste on small jobs. Didn't 3'ou take care of her when she 
was a poor orphan, and it's mean in her to desert her old 
friends. Just you wait awhile, and there will be a panic in 
the boquet market. 

Watts. Well, I'll leave her to )'ou. I'll come back this 
way. (Exit r. i e.) 

(GiLLY disappears behind house. Enter Onie, l. u. e., with 
box of nosegays ; comes down stage ; places her box on ground ; 
7uipes the perspiration from her brow, and takes a heavy breath. 

Onie. What a long walk from the country where I buy my 
flowers, and the distance seems none the less when the heart 
is heavy, and having fevers don't make the legs any stronger. 
After Mr. Lovewold set me up in business — two months ago — 
I made shillings fast and saved up to pay him back, then I 
was taken sick with the fever and had to go to the work'us. 
Day before yesterday they said I was well, so I started busi- 
ness again this morning, but I found my reg'lar trade has left 
me — thinkin', I s'pose, I'd got rich. It's werry hard to bring 
customers back again, but I'm happy to think I kept my 
word : I've been honest, and lived away from Watts and Simes. 

(GiLLY appears from behind house^ 

Gil. If here isn't Onie. Hello! How's trade? 

Onie. Haven't sold anything yet. 

Gil. (aside) That's good, now for it. (A/oud) See here, do 
you want to make a sovereign ? 

Onie. A sovrin ! How ? 

GiLLY. I'll tell you 

Onie. Honestly, you know, Gilly, I don't want to make 
money any other way. 

Gil. Of course ; clo you think me capable of proposing any- 
thing else? 

Onie. I think you capable of almost anything that's bad. 

Gil. Now don't ; somebody might hear you, and then what 
would become of my character? 

Onie. Bother ! Tell me how I can earn so much money. 

Gil. The easiest thing in the world. Come to-night to the 
"Kent Street Palace" and sing for the folks. He says he'll 
stand a sovereign if you will. 
, Onie. You speak honestlj'? 



O N I E t 17 

Gil. You're always doubting me. Don't I look honest — 
ain't I poor? 

Onie. {aside) Why shouldn't I make the money? 

Gil. Will you do it ? 

Onie. (after a momentary pause) No! {Turns toward '?^^ 

Re-enter Mrs. Watts, r. i e., suddenly. 

Watts. What ! Onie ! Lor ! the sight o' time since I set 
eyes on you. 

Onie. What ! Mrs. Watts. 

Watts. What are you doing, girl ? Not much for yourself, 
I should think. 

Onie. Not much just now. 

Watts. Come home with me, and let's have a bit o' talk 
together. 

Onie. Don't you keep a lodging-house now? 

Watts. No ; a little shop, and we has a party every evenin', 
with something nice and hot for supper. 

Onie. {sarcastically) A school — on your own hook. 

Watts. Oh ! how sharp we gets as we grows up ! But you 
allers was as sharp as a needle, and I was saying to Simes yes- 
terday, if I could just get little Onie {taking her by hand), she'd 
be the very girl to do us credit, she would. {Draws Onie 
along?) 

Onie. Wait a bit ; don't be in a hurry, I'll come presently — 
perhaps. 

Watts. Come if you like, stop awa)^ il you like, it's all one 
to me. I'll go about my rump steaks for supper, and 3'ou can 
stay here and starve, if you prefer it. {Aside) I guess that'll 
bring her. {Exit Gilly aw^ Watts, l. 2 e.) 

Onie. A gold sovrin ! and steaks for supper ! / haven't 
had steak to eat for weeks — not since I went to the work'us. 
Shall I go ? {Hands on head?) Oh ! What thoughts are run- 
ning through my head ? No ! No ! I will keep good ! I 
will keep good ! {Exit L. u. E.) 

Enter Bella, l. i e., in walking costume ; she is flushed and 
excited. 

Bella, {timidly looking back) After parting with him, as I 
thought, forever, how strange that I should meet Mr. Prowl — 
the hero of my Brighton ioWy — again. Oh ! how foolish I was 
to listen to him — even for a moment. I'm afraid of him. I 
should not like father to know he followed me, lest he should 
think I had given him encouragement, and father can be very 
stern when his suspicions are aroused. Besides, I shouldn't 
like Sidney to know. {Looking back) There he is again ! I 
fear the consequences should Sidney meet him. 



i8 O N I E ! 

Enter Augustine Prowl, l. i e. 

Prowl. Miss Weston, for one moment, while I venture to 
explain 

Bella. No, sir; I wish to hear nothing, there is nothing to 
explain. 

Prowl. I have been very rude, I will ask your pardon. Miss 
Weston, but listen ; I have been a wanderer, in search of happi- 
ness for man}' years, and for the first time in a life not unad- 
venturous, there crosses m}' 

Bella. I must beg 3'ou to leave me, I don't want to hear a 
single word, the past folly is entirely forgotten. 

Prowl. Miss Weston, ov\j allow me to explain, and I will 
go and never see you more ; I will vanish away in the dark- 
ness, and let all the bright hopes I have fostered float awa}'' on 
the current which bears you from me. 

Bella, {aside) How earnestly he seems to love me. {Aloud.) 
Go, pray do go, if you are a gentleman. I must appeal to 
some one for protection, if you 

Prowl. Miss Weston, you nuist hear me, you shall hear 
me. I am not a child, I am 

Enter Sidney, sziddcnly, l. i E., crosses between them. Bella 
titters a cry. 

Sid. a scoundrel ! evidently. 

Prow^L. Who are you, sir ? 

Sid. M)r name is Lovewold. Now, sir, your name — and bzisi- 
ness ? 

Prowl. I decline to give it. 

Sid. You have insulted this lady — apologize ! 

Prowl. Your tone is not calculated to induce me to oblige 
you. If Miss Weston thinks that I 

Sid. Apologize ! 

Prowl. I never intended to insult the lady, but if the lady 

considers I have taken a libertj^ in (Bella appears faint, 

and Sidney supports her. Aside?) Ah ! she fears to let hitn 
know. {Aloud?) I apologize, with all my heart. 

Sid. That will do, sir. You have had a narrow escape, take 
it as a lesson. 

Prowl, {aside) I am not done with this yet. I do not in- 
tend to give her up so easil)^ {Exit L. i e.) 

Sid. Did he ever speak to you before? 

Bella, {tmconsciously) Yes. {Suddenly) No ! never. 

Sid. He'll not trouble you any more. He didn't know you 
had any one to take care of you. 

Bella. I suppose not. 

Sid. Bella, I came here to see you, and, as it hapjjened, op- 
portunely. I had something to say 



N I E ! 19 

Bella. Shall we go in the house ? 

Sid. No, thank you ; your father is there, and I would per- 
haps lose the opportunity to say what I wish. 

Bell.\. {Alarmed. Aside) Can he have discovered? 

Sid. Bella, I love you truly, and I did think myself a favored 
suitor until you visited your friends at Brighton, then, some- 
how, you grew cold. 

Bella. You don't know half the foolishness of which I have 
been guilty— what a weak, frivolous, romantic girl I have 
been. Am I worthy of this jealousy, Sidney? 

Sid. I'm not positively jealous, but I don't like it. 

Bella. Let us change the subject. Any news of your little 
floweret, Onie? (Sidney stamps his foot.) Now, don't get 
angry, Sid ; if she has the "good germ" of which you boasted— 

SiD. You speak triflingly. I really believe in poor Onie's 
bosom dwells a heart capable of deep devotion. Where grati- 
tude exists, love must find a lodging place as well. 

Bella, (apparently jealous) Bless you, seek the little stray, / 
like her as well. She's poor, it's true, but love " shouldn't be 
measured by dross." 

Enter Mr. Weston, from house. 

Wes. You two at it again ? 

Bella. Sid's always at it. 

Wes. Your little troubles are nothing to mine. Ann has 
been here to tell me that boy's left again. 

SiD. Shop boy, gone ? 

Wes. Yes ; the bill's no sooner down than up again. I ve a 
great mind to try a girl, and would if I could get a good one. 

Bella. Am I not a good girl, father? 

Wes. Yes, bless you, but your head is scarcely a business 
one. 

Bella {kissing hitn) Now Aovit you put me out of temper. 

Sid. Why not try Onie, if we can find her? 

Wes. Try Onie? 

SiD. I think that she will be grateful. 

Bella, {pointedly, to Sidney) Let me plead for her, too. 
She's a special pet of Sidney's, and mtist be grateful. 

Wes. Gratitude in a young thief out of Kent Street? Nori- 
sense ! I wonder whether you would have let the girl off if 
there had been no hope of the brooch coming to light? 

SiD. Well,— I think I should. 

Wes. I think you told a lie, for the value of the brooch. 

SiD. You're rather hard upon me. If ever I tell another lie, 

may I 

Wes. Tut— tut, not so fast. You are going into business— 
you'll be a business man— one who will drive hard bargains, 
and have to fight his way through a hundred thousand liars. 



20 N I E ! 

In the pursuit of money you must lie, or let a good chance go 
by to turn an honest penn)'. 

Sid. Business equivocations can scarcely be called lies. 

Wes. But the}^ are lies, nevertheless. To be a completely 
successful business man of the world, one must be thoroughly 
selfish, often dishonest, often false, seldom conscientious, and 
the porcupine quills which guard his precious interests must 
be well sharpened. If now and then there is blood upon them, 
what matter? Blood is easily washed off. 

Sid. But the smell remains. 

Wes. Nobly spoken ! 

Sid. In this girl, Onie, I read a struggle for something better 
and purer in her life, and that fate was against her and draw- 
ing her bacK to the shadows from which she, as if by a noble 
instinct, was endeavoring to emerge. 

Wes. If 3'ou keep on, you'll interest me concerning her. 
(Onie enters, L. u. E., a^id timidly approaches, as if about to speak, 
then starts back. Weston sees her.) Here she is. Well, girl, 
what do you want? 

Sid. Now to prove her gratitude. (Approaches her.) Have 
you got it, Onie? Have you got it? 

Onie. No ; I ain't got nothin' 'cept a fever, Mr. Sidney. 

Wes. Stay where )'Ou are, I didn't know you had a fever, 
girl. Sidney, keep further off. or we shall all be as red as lob- 
sters in the morning. 

Onie. I don't think you can catch anything from me, 
guv'nor. 

Wes. If you havn't brought the brooch, what was the use in 
coming here? 

Onie. I tried my hardest to get it back, because the young 
gentleman let me off. Old Simes said he'd get it for me, but 
he never did, sir, never. 

Wes. No ; I suppose not. 

Onie. Then I caught the fever, and got in the work'us. 

Wes. And you came here to tell us all this? 

Onie. Yes ; I thought you'd like to know I did iry. 

Wes. You're a very odd girl. What do you intend to do 
now? 

Onie. The fust thing I do is this — if I haven't lost it (contort- 
ing' her frame very mtich as she dives into her pocket). Oh, here 
it is ! No, that's a sandwich the pic-nic lot gave me just now. 
P'raps I'd better take the whole kit out, sir, if there's no huny. 
(She produces a piece of comb, some curl papers, glass beads, a 
shoe lace, a bit of scarlet ribbon, a pocket handkerchief rolled in a 
ball, &fc., (the quantity of rtibbish only limited by the capacity of 
the pocket, and, may I add, the patience of the atidience.) Jakes 
money, wrapped itt paper, from her bosom, finally, and gives it to 
Sidney. He looks at it suspiciously^ It's honestly come by, 
sir. 



N IE ! 21 

Sid. What's the twelve and sixpence for? Not for the 

Onie. Yes ; the brooch ! I've saved it up, and now it's easy 
on my mind. 

Sid. I won't take it. 

Onie. Please do. I've been trying so hard to wipe that off. 
I'm quite well now, and shall save it all up again. 

Sid. I won't take it, I tell you. Why, you don't know the 
value of money ; it's a fortune to you. 

Onie. No ; it's been a weight ; now it's wiped clean. Don't 
make me a thief again by giving it on me back, please don't, 
sir, please don't. {^She starts to go.) 

Wes. Where are you going? 

Onie. {with gravity) To 'tend to business, sir. 

Bella. How — how would you like to be a newsboy? 

Onie. Me ! Me be a newsdoy ! How can I, when I've been 
a gal so long? 

Wes. Now, Bella, my dear, don't meddle in my business. 

Bella. But I want Onie, in the house with me, I feel quite 
interested in her. 

Wes. Sidney, take Bella away. I believe this flower-girl is 
a fever, and we're all catching the infection of thinking her an 
angel. (Sidney persuades Bella in house.) Come around to- 
morrow, Onie, and if I make up my mind to tr}^ you as my 
shop girl, I 

Onie. Oh ! bless you, sir ! I'm honest, indeed I am, and if 
5'ours is the helping hand stretched out to save me, I'll pray 
for you night and day. 

Wes. {wiping a tear from eye. Aside) She curls herself up 
in my old heart so naturally — I won't wait until to-morrow. 
[Alvtid.) Onie, I will try you, and, if you prove worthy, 3'ou 
shall never want a father's care, and my home will be yours for 
good ! 

Onie. Your home, mine for good I {Ji hapsodically.) Oh ! 
oh ! to be like Miss Bella, to dress like her, to look like her, 
to have a mother and a father, to learn to read and write, and 
grow up good. What happiness to dream of — to be a princess 
— to live in fairy-land. 

Wes. {takes her hand and points to house) Come, Onie, to 
your home. 

Onie. Home ! 

Wes. {earnestly) For good ! 

Onie. {affected) Home for good ! (Onie falls on Weston's 
hand, kissing it. Weston points to house.) 



22 N I E ! 

J^Giu 3. 

THREE YEARS LATER 



SCENE. — An elegantly ftirnished dratving-room. Door c An 
arch with looped draperies at R. firegrate, L. 2 E. A Win- 
dow, L. 3 E. Table and chairs C. An easy chair before fire. 
Small footstool beside easy chair. An Escritoire, zuith writ- 
ing materials at back. Chatidelier and drop-light to table. 
Guitar and boquet of fiowers on table, C. A Pianoforte. A 
small but fine Clock on Mantel. Mr. Weston discovered 
sitting in easy chair before fire, book in hand. 

Wes. My old eyes soon tire of reading {lays down book). 
Three years have come and gone since Onie Grayford came 
into vay family, and from the day I offered her a home, my inter- 
est has kept increasing until I love her as dearly as I 
do my own Bella. I have seriously thought of legally adopt- 
ing her, and would do so, if I could overcome the one obstacle 
— lier family. I believe her origin is from good stock, but, 
then, her mother's death in a tramps' lodging-house. I'm 
puzzled. If I could clear up this m)rster)', my mind would 
be satisfied, and I could act as m}^ heart prompts. Mrs. 
Weston, says, "It's your suspicious nature, John Weston, 
that makes you look to the past at all." Is it so? This con- 
flict of thought makes me very uneas)'. Sometimes I think it 
is this grand house, Bella persuaded me to buy. I was more 
contented in the old home, with its humbler associations. Ah ! 
I shall have to move back there before I die. 

Enter Onie c. d., overhearing the latter part of his speech. 

Onie. {running to hit?i) Oh ! Mr. Weston, you were not 
thinking of dying ? 

Wes. {kisses her) No, no, my dear ; I was thinking of you, 
and wishing you would come to me. Now cheer me up. Sit 
beside me in your old place and sing. 

Onie. With pleasure. {Gets guitar from table and sitting on 
stool beside him, sings.) 

Wes. Thank you, Onie, thank )'ou. What a comfort you 
are to me. 

Onie. I'm glad of that. 

Wes. It is just three years to-day since you came liere. 



O N I E ! 23 

Onie. It seems more like three months to me. 

Wes. And at the end of three years to find }'ou, Onie — what? 

Onie. To find me very happ}' — happy in having improved 
my scholarship, happy with you to whom I owe — oh ! more 
than I can ever think about, or be grateful enough for. 

Wes. You'll never lose that feeling, Onie? 

Onie. When I forget the prayers that Mrs. Weston taught 
me, or the first words of yours that set me thinking in real 
earnest that I might grow good, or all the kindness which 
everybody in this house has shown me, then I shall lose that 
feeling — not before ! To think how I have altered since I first 
came here, a little ragged thing, who frightened 3'ou with the 
vulgar words I picked up in the streets and was so ignorant, 
you blushed for me. 

Wes. And now you are one of the best of — daughters. 

Onie. You call me daughter ! 

Wes. You are almost my daughter, Onie. It was only this 
evening I was thinking how much pleasanter it would be to 
hear)rou call me father. 

Onie. {kissing him) Oh ! can I call you father? 

Wes. Yes, child. 

Onie. Always? 

Wes. Yes, always ! I must go up to Sidney's room for a 
few moments, now. Since he has had sole charge of my busi- 
ness, he never feels satisfied unless I talk over matters with 
him. Bye-bye, for a Itttle while, Onie — datighter ! {He takes 
■her in his arms. Exit through Arch R.) 

Onie. {looking after hitji) I can call him father ! dear, dear 
father ! How much that privilege has increased my happiness. 
His natural daughter could not love him more than I, and he 
loves me dearly, too, but sometimes I have a thought that he 
looks back to the " three years ago" — the old life — with sus- 
picion, then a dark cloud comes over my great happiness, and 
I feel he doubts the sincerity of m}'^ love. Oh ! Onie, it is un- 
fair to think this now, when you are so happy. {Sits at piano 
and hums the air she has been singing to Weston. Enter Bella, 
C. D., and sits at table C. Site drops in chair, and sighs.) Oh, 
dear ! What has happened ? Shall I run and tell father ? 

Bella. For goodness sake, don't think of anything of the 
kind ! I — I — I shall be better in a minute. 

Onie. I hope so ! 

Bella. Onie, come here, I have something to tell you. 
{Looks cautiously around) I'm in love ! 

Onie {starts') No ! 

Bella. Dreadfull}^ and desperately in love. {Sobs^ 

Onie. I don't think that's anything to cry about. / should 
dance for joy. 

Bella, {impatiently) You're too young to know what you 
are talking about, 



24 N I E ! 

Onie. No, I'm not ; I should feel verj^ happ}' to know that 
there was some one to love me better than anybody else in the 
world, to pray about me ever}'^ night, dream of me until the 
daytime, keep me ahvays in his head — when he wasn't think- 
ing about anything else. 

Bella. That's part of love — not all. 

Onie. What else is there? 

Bella. It's too complicated, Onie, and you'll be able to find 
out for yourself. 

Onie. Where did you meet this wonder? 

Bella. Long, long ago, at Brighton. 

Onie. And 

Bella. He fell in love with me. 

Onie. Really and truly ? 

Bella, {vain!)) Of course. He was very fond of me, and 
used to follow me to London and send me letters by the ser- 
vant, and I — I did get very fond of him. 

Onie. (impaiieittl)) Well ? Oh, dear ! tell me, is it like the 
stor}'^ books we used to read in the shop ? 

Bella. Wait a while, dear. The misery of the human heart 
is to be unfolded now. He's a gentleman's son, and there's 
an estate or something in West India or East India — some 
dreadful hot place over t)ie water. 

Onie. Oh ! I know ; where the natives hook themselves in 
the small of their backs and swing about, and say their prayers 
with a cigar between their teeth. Ugh ! how nasty ! 

Bella. And he was to go there {sobs) and live there. 
{Dropping her voice to a whisper^ He asked me if I'd run 
away with him. 

Onie. Then he's a big scamp ! I'm sure of it ! 

BxLLA. What makes you think that ? 

Onie. Couldn't he have come here and told your father all 
about it, like a — like a man ? 

Bella. Yes — but — but 

Onie. Oh, dear ! how contrar}^ things do go, to be sure ! 

Bella. What's the matter now ? 

Onie. I did think you and Mister Sidney would marry, and 
be — oh, so happy. When I'm at my studies sometimes, I 
catch myself forgetting all about them, and think of him — of 
— oi you and him together. 

Bella. Mr. Sidney ! 

Onie. Yes; he's 2. gentlemaji, and not like the other 3'ou've 
been so silly about. 

Bella. Silly ! Oh, Onie ! that isn't sympathy with me ! I 
don't know whether you're a child or an old woman ; you talk 
like both, and in one breath. Why did I tell you ! why did I 
tell you ! 



N I E ! 25 

Onie. Because you could not keep such a secret from me, 
and if you had wanted help, how I would have stood by yo\x. 

Bella. Thank )'ou, Onie, you are a friend at least. 

Onie. More! A sister ! {They embrace^ 

Bella. Never a word about this, Onie. 

Onie. I dare say we'll soon forget it. 

Bella, {who has been looking toward windozv. L. Suddenly) 
Oh ! there he is ! 

Onie. {running to window and looking out) Who ? 

Bella {aside) So imprudent in him to come here. How 
can I avert suspicion? {Aloud.) Onie, I'll go to my room, I 
feel all in a fever. 

Onie. Go, Bella, dear ; when you are quiet you'll think how 
foolish you have been, I fancy. 

Bella. You're full of fancies, Onie. {Sighs. Exit c. D. to R.) 

Onie. {going to zvindoiv^ There he is again ; the scamp that 
has been talking nonsense to our Bella and she romantic and 
weak enough to listen to him. I can't account for it. How 
very much like a devil in a French hat he is, to be sure ! He 
came from a hot place, Bella said. Well, he looks it {points 
downward). What's that ! He's coming up the steps ! He 
hands his card to the servant ! Oh ! Bella ! Bella ! what shall 
I say to him ? Why should I call Bella? I'll use my own dis- 
cretion, and — {Enter John, a servant, c. D. f7-07?i L., and hands 
card to Onie.) Mr. Augustine Prowl ! {Hands card back.) 
John, tell him Miss Bella is not at home. {Servant turns to 
exit.) John, tell him Miss Bella will not be home for a week. 
{Servant turns again.) John, say a month ! (Bella appears at 
back c. D. from R. dressed for walking, hat on. She listens.) If 
Augustine Prowl can take a hint, I dare say that message con- 
tains one strong enough to keep him away forever. (Exit 
through arch R.) 

John. I'll say a year ! {about to exit, but is stopped by Bella, 
who enters, and taking card from him, gives him a note, instead. 
This must be done to be seen very pointedly by audience.) 

Bella. Give that note to the gentleman. {Exit John c. D. 
to L. Bella goes to window, L ., and looking out, starts. She 
hastily draws the curtain and appears very nervous as Onie re- 
enters, R., through arch.) 

Onie. {seeing Bella, starts in surprise) You're surely not 
going out, Bella? 

Bella {sits at table) Yes ; I — I told father I was going to — 
the — Everleighs. 

Onie. But not at this late hour ; beside, you can scarcely 
avoid meeting that Mr. Prowl, you've been so foolish to think 
about. 

Bella, {aside) Can she suspect the truth ? 

Onie. {laughing) I don't think he will come here again. 



26 O N I E ! 

Bella, {aside) She does not suspect. {Aloud?) Oh ! Onie, 
look me in the face. Isn't it a false face? the face of one who 
brings wrong and sorrow to all who know her? 

Onie. I hope not ! Why ask such a question, Bella? 

Bella, {sobs) Oh ! Onie, I have acted very treacherously to 
him. 

Onie. To Mr. Sidney, yes. 

Bella. I suppose I did love him once. I try hard, and 
sometimes think I do now, but 

Onie. Oh ! this is very wrong. 

Bella. I love another, and must dash poor Sidney's hopes 
to the ground. 

Onie. I alwa3'-s had too much to do improving myself to 
think about wliat really loving a young man was, but your ac- 
tions don't seem right to me. 

Bella. But 

Onie. It isn't fair to let a man keep thinking of you when 
you're turned against him. It's cowardly to hide the truth 
from him, or be afraid of telling it. 

Bella. I'm not afraid, but — oh, Onie ! I could not face him 
now. 

Onie. / should speak out at once. 

Bella. I'll write him — yes — yes — its much the better way. 
Why make a scene of it ? I hate scenes ! I have a right to 
turn away from him if my heart tells me. — Will you hand me 
writing materials, Onie? 

Onie. {hands paper, &'c., from escritoire. Aside) I cannot 
understand her. I'm in a maze. 

Bella {turning over paper impatiently) What would vou say, 
Onie? 

Onie. Don't ask me, Bella. 

Bella. I can't think of the right words. I can't tell him of 
— I don't like to say I — I don't love him, and never did — it 
looks so spiteful. 

Onie. I should simply tell him what 3rou've told me. 

Bella, {writes rapidly) There ! it's brief and to the point. 
There is no use in being long when you are compelled to be 
disagreeable. {Folds letter and directs it) I'll put it here. 
{Lays it on table.) I shall go now. {Partly to herself.) If he 
will only think well of me afterward, and not despise me, poor 
fellow ! Good-by, my dear. {Embraces Onie.) If father should 

be worried and ask for me before he retires, say ( Turns?) 

You will always be my sister, Onie ? {Hides face in Onie's 
neck?) 

Onie. Always ! {kissing hei-) always ! (Bella hurriedly exits, 
c. D.) Bella puzzles me dreadfull)'^ ! Why don't she love Sid- 
ney Lovewold ? I'm sure I Oh ! Onie Grayford,_what are 

you thinking of! {Enter Sidney, R., through arch, in dressing- 
gown and slippers?) Goodness me, Mr. Lovewold ! 



ON IE! 27 

Sid. Why, Onie, still up ? {She looks up shyly) Then I am 
fairly caught, for I came down to pillage the escritoire. 

Onie. More night work ; that's not right. 

Sid. Why not, pray? 

Onie. Because it's ruining your health, and 

Sid. And 

Onie. (abruptly hands paper) I'm waiting to turn off the gas. 
{Hand on drop-light) 

Sid. Can't I do that ? 

Onie. I thought so, until I found it on full this morning. 
Father Weston trusts me, you know ; hereafter I'll attend to 
everything about the house myself. 

Sid. (smiling) Go on, I'm rather fond of lectures. 

Onie. (leaning on elbows) This night work isn't good for you. 
I don't believe you went to bed last night at all. 

Sid. What makes you think that? 

Onie. You look pale, and you've got the same collar on. I 
noticed a spot of ink on it last night, — where your genius had 
been splashing over. 

Sid. You're a terrible little woman to notice, but you are 
quite right. 

Onie. I think, too (slowly), you've something on your mind. 

Sid. (crosses stage and returns. Serious.) Onie, when I first 
saw you there was something in your face, said, trust me. I 
have trusted you for three years, and found you always fair and 
true. I honor and respect you as a dear sister, who has won a 
right to my confidence. 

Onie. (aside) How noble he is. 

Sid. (nervously) I may as well have it out, I suppose — there 
is something on my mind, Onie, and that is — Bella. 

NOnie. (startled. Aside.) I wonder if he knows. (Aloud.) 
Bella? 
J* Sid. Yes — Bella. The fact is, I think we both felt differ- 
ently some time ago. I can't account for the change, but she 
addresses me more as an esteemed friend, and I seem to feel 
for her a friendly interest — nothing more. 

Onie. (aside, laughing) Poor Bella, if she but knew. (Puts 
Bella's letter in escritoire) 

Sid. I'm in a quandary ; it's such delicate ground. T can't 
speak, and Bella won't, though we both long for freedom. It's 
the most confounded mutual misunderstanding / ever heard 
of. What do you think, Onie ? (Looks in her face suddenly) 

Onie. (eagerly) Oh ! I'm de I mean, you know — yes— I 

think it's delicate myself. (Scribbles) 

Sid. Come, little woman, advise me. 

Onie. (drawing on paper. With gravity) Well, Mr. Sidney, 
I think — love's as uncertain as life. 

SiD. Ahem! 



28 N I E ! 

Onie. At least, I've read so. It's a thing /shall never un- 
derstand. 

Sid. Ahem ! Onie, hasn't it struck you that Bella is a trifle 
vain? 

Onie. Wouldn't you be proud of your good looks if you 
had any ? 

Sid. Urn, — I dare say I might. 

Onie. I should be always staring at myself in the glass if I 
had her complexion and her hair, and her 

Sid. {suddenly stopping her, takes her hand) Why, what a 
pretty little hand ! 

Onie. Pshaw ! as if my hands had an3'thing to do with it. 

Sid. The}' wouldn't do much harm if they had. 

Onie. Nonsense. — I was thinking perhaps you had seen 
some one you liked better than Bella. 

Sid. {laughing) What a shrewd little detective. Now, I pity 
your husband. 

Onie. You may ; when I get one. 

Sid. {holds out ha^id abruptly!) Good night. 

Onie. Good night. (Sidney goes to R. arch, then runs back 
laughing) Oh ! I forgot something. 

Onie. {looking abotU) What? 

Sid. {shyly, taking Jlower from button-hole) I brought this 
little flower home for you, but I was taken up with Mr. Wes- 
ton's business until it was so late I feared I would not see 
you, and 1 put it in my coat. 

Onie. {taking Jlozver) Am I not a luck)' girl ? Just think ! 
two presents of flowers in one evening ! {Going to bouquet on 
table!) 

Sid. Mine is a poor one beside the other. 

Onie. It is very pretty, and I shall put it in water all by it- 
self. 

Sid. You are very fond of flowers ? 

Onie. I love everything that is bright ; I like to bury my 
face in them— like this, {Bus) and shut my eyes and think — 
such beautiful thoughts come ! You try ! {Holding flowers to 
Sid.) 

Sid. Suppose you had a chance of living away trom the 
dusty city, and in a pretty little house of your own, surrounded 
by the flowers you love so well 

Onie. How delightful ! {Puts face in flowers again^ 

Sid. Open your eyes, Onie, while I speak. 

Onie. Wait a minute. Don't speak for sixty seconds, I'm 
looking at the house. I see it ! {peeps out from flowers) It is 
built of old red brick, the windows are very large, and vines 
are creeping all over the walls. 

Sid. How would you like to live in such a house ?- 

Onie. How would I like to live in a rainbow? 



N I E ! 29 

Sid. {earnestly) But what I say, I mean. 

Onie. And what I say, I don't. {Laughs) 

Sid. {holds out hand) Good night. (Onie gives her hand 
slowly. Sid raises it to his lips. Weston appears at c. D.) 

Wes. Ahem ! 

Onie. {starts) Mr. Weston ! 

Sid. Anything wrong up stairs, sir? 

Wes. {brusquely, glancing from Sid to Onie) No ; why, is 
there anything wrong here? 

Om-E.' {edging bac^ Oh, dear; no, sir. 

Wes. {looking sharply at Sid) Good night, sir. 

SiD. {going) Good night, sir. Oh, Onie, the paper, if you 
please. {She hands it.) Good night. {Exit r., through arch) 

Wes. {sternly) What was he doing here at this time ot night? 

Onie. He came for some stationery, sir. 

Wes. And you ? 

Onie. Oh, I was waiting to see everything locked up, and 
to turn off the gas. 

Wes. The next time turn it off and leave him in the dark, it 
will turn out for the best. 

Onie. {gazing at him) I hope nothing has happened, sir. 

Wes. Happened ! Is it so wonderful that I should pass 
through my own house in the night, see the drawing-room 
illuminated and hear voices, without stopping in to see why? 
Beside, I cannot sleep in this great house. I wish I'd never 
left the shop. 

Onie. So do I, sir ; you seemed more contented there. 

Wes. {at c. d.) Well, I'm going up stairs again. Good 
night. 

Onie. Good night, father. 

Wes. {turning around and pointing to where Sidney went out) 
No more of that, you know, Onie. {Exit c. D. Sidney re-enters 
R., through arch, and as Onie goes toward him Weston appears 
at c. D. Sidney confused, shrinks to R. Onie, all confusion, 
draws L. Weston, lookiiig much displeased, c. Bus) 




30 O N I E ! 



STILL A ST RAY." 



SCENE — Same as Act 3. Onie and]o\iX\. discovered. 

Onie. Don't your wife feel any better this morning? 

John. Much wus. She's only forty, and her ankles oughn't 
to go at that age. 

Onie. No, and they won't. 

John. But they has ! 

Onie. John, you must cheer her up, tell her I'll find time 
very soon, to bring a book down stairs to read to her. I'll 
make her laugh, and then she'll forget all about her rheumatic 
ankles. 

John, {aside) What a clever little body. [Aloud.) God bless 
you. Miss, you're the sunshine of the house. God bless you, 
again and again. {Exit c. D.) 

Onie. God has blessed me in giving me an opportunity to 
be called sunshine. (Onie goes to piano and sings, during her 
song she speaks and plays alternately}) It is seldom father is so 
late coming down stairs. I wish he hadn't seen Mr. Sidney 
here last night ; he didn't like it, I'm sure. [Exit r., through 
arch?) 

Enter Weston c. d. 

Wes. What an old fool I was to retire from business, after I 
had been in the shop so many years. There, all the time I 
had to spare from business was taken up with thoughts of 
good, and doing good. Now, when I have the whole day to 
do my thinking, I become pettish and suspicious — I'm losing 
my old self entirel)^ — I'm changed and restless. Oh ! why did 
I let Bella persuade me to live in this ostentatious, idle way. 

(Re-enter Onie through arch R.) 

Onie. Oh, there you are ; I've been seeking you all over the 
house. 

Wes. {coldly) Have you ? I'm going to Camberwell ; I'll re- 
turn presently. (Onie starts toward him as if to kiss him, he 
turns and exit c. D.) 

Onie. No kiss. Good-bye ! Oh ! I'm sure he is displeased. 
What a cloud darkens the sunshine now? 



ON IE .' 31 

Enter' ]on^ c. D. 

John. There is a shabbily-dressed woman at the door ask- 
ing for you, Miss. 

Onie. {aside) Who can it be ? {Aloud) Show her here, John. 

{Exit John, c. D.) 

Enter Mrs. Watts, c. d. She has a basket ; advances L. side, 
and as Onie turns, sees her. 

Onie. {starts) You here ? 

Watts. And so you recollects me, arter all these years? 

Onie. I — I think I have seen you before. 

Watts. I should think you just had ; and so you've turned 
gentlefolk ? {Puts down basket and sits.) Well, wonders will 
never cease. 

Onie. What do you want ? 

Watts. Ah ! that's another wonder, which won't cease 
either, my dear, and a bigger wonder than the t'other one. 

Onie. I don't want to hear it. You must go away from 
here, Mrs. Watts. 

Watts. Now don't be afeard of me, my love ; I've something 
particular to tell you. Shall we go up stairs, where we can be 
more private? 

Onie. Oh, no ! 

Watts. I'm not dressed up enuf, I suppose? I'm not fit 
society for such a nice young gal. 

Onie. {troubled) Oh, what do you want ? 

Watts. I was your poor mother's friend, and I've allers 
been a friend to you, though that's something to turn your 
nose up at, ain't it? 

Onie. You were kind in your way, perhaps, but I don't wish 
to remember the past, it is blotted out of my memory forever. 
Will you go away? 

GiLLY enters stealthily through window L. and sneaks off unseen 
through arch R. 

Watts. There's been a man asking arter you down our 
court, and nearly came to a bargain with me, when, cuss my 
greediness, I lost him. 

Onie. Asking after me ? 

Watts. Ah ! you may well open those eyes ; he made me 
stare, I can tell you. He walks one da}' into my house, and 
he says, are you Mrs. Watts ? Yes, says I. Do you remem- 
ber Mrs. .Grayford ? says he. She died here, says I. And the 
child ? he says. Onie, you mean, I says. Ah ! Onie ! he says. 
Then, I says, and will you oblige me with your reasons for all 
these questions of a 'spectable hard-working woman? My 
name's Grayford, he says, and I'm Onie's father ! 



32 N IE ! 

Onie. Is this true ? Oh ! is it really true ? 

Watts. Hope-I-may-never-stir-agin-from-here-if-'tisn't. Mis- 
ter Grayford ! Onie's father ! I says. Yes, says he, is that 
so very wonderful? And I says, yes, it is, arter all this time. 
He said he'd give me a suvrin to find you out. I says, I'll try 
for a five-pun note, for it'd be a trouble to look arter you. 
And he says, /'// take that trouble myself, and then he looked 
at his watch, and said he'd come agin, which he never did. as 
I'm an honest woman. 
. Onie. How long ago was this? 

Watts. Two months. 

Onie. What kind of a man was he? 

Watts. Oh ! a little ugl)' commoner. Do you suppose _>'<?2/^ 
father is a duke, or a markis? 

Onie. Oh ! don't tell him where I live ; he may be a bad 
cruel man, and I am happy here. 

Watts. You must make it a five-pun note, then, and I'll 
tell him I can't find yer. You've got money, I dare say, and 
five puns ain't much to stand. 

Onie. I see through your idle story now — a foolish scheme 
to extort money. I shall not give you five-pence Mrs. Watts. 

GiLLY re-enters through arch R., with parcel in hand, and steals 
through window L. unseen by Onie, but seen by Mrs. Watts. 

Watts, {aside) It's all right now. {Aloud) Leave it alone, 
then ; and considerin' that I came out of kindness, and to give 
you a piece of news, you might have said thankee for it. Bad 
luck to you, Onie Grayford ! 

Onie. Bad luck will not come to me at j'^our wish. 

Watts, {crossing) I never wished bad luck to any living 
soul but what it came. {At c. D., shaking hand at Onie.) Now 
think of that ! think of that ! {Exit c. D.) 

Onie. What can it mean? Was it unfair to doubt her ? She 
thought so, or she would not have wished me bad luck so 
evilly at the last. {Sits at table. Shudders) I have a dread- 
ful presentiment that something will happen. This woman 
coming here, Mr. Weston coming down stairs so late last 
night, and — Bella's letter ! I've forgotten all about that. 
( Takes letter from escritoire. Starts.) What's this ? Onie 
Gra)rford ! Addressed to me ! {Tears it open and reads) " I 
couldn't tell you all, Onie, but before you read this I shall be 
on my road to Calais with Mr. Prowl. Break the news gently 
to poor father, and ask Sidney to pardon me the wrong I am 
doing him. — Bella." Oh ! I see all, now. {Rings belL Enter 
John c. d.) John, call a cab — quick ! {Exit John, c. d.) 
Why did I not read this before ! But there is a chance, — a 
hope, at least, left — My hat and cloak — Oh ! give me strength 
to save her. {Exit c. D. to R.) 



N IE ! 33 

GiLLY appears at window 'h., peeping in. 

Gil. All out : good enough ! {Steps in and surveys the scene ; 
is very stealthy and cautious in his action?^ What an elegant 
opportunity ! It was very hard to pass this room a moment 
ago, without doing a little something in the way of business. 
{At table, picks tip book) Of a literary turn of mind, evidently 
—the latest novel {reads title), "We met by chance,"— that's 
true. {Takes book; examines clock on mantel; surveys it.) 
Some wise fellow remarked, " Time and tide wait for no man ;" 
the tide ain't here, but the time is, and I won't keep it waiting 
any longer for me. {Takes clock. Listens) What's that! 
Somebody coming ! {Looks significantly at clock.) Well, the 
time won't wait for them — or Gilly either. {Makes his exit by 
windoza L.) 

Re-enter Onie, c. d. from R., with hat and cloak. Enter 
Weston, from r. through arch. 

Wes. {excitedly) Have you been up stairs, Onie ? 

Onie. No ! 

Wes. Have you been asleep ? 

Onie. No. 

Wes. Quite sure, — not a moriient ? 

Onie. No ! no ! What has happened ? 

Wes. Somebody's been in my room and broken open the 
box where the money is kept 

Onie. And the valuables? 

Wes. Gone ! 

Onie. {Sinking in chai?) The bad luck she wished me, has 
soon stolen on its way. 

Wes. {sternly) Where were you, Onie ? 

Onie. Sitting here while Mrs. Watts was talking to me. 

Wes. {starts) What Mrs. Watts ? Not the woman 

Onie. Yes — yes — the woman who would have tempted me 
to evil years ago. She came here and said that my father- 
Mr. Grayford- had been inquiring for me in Kent Street. 

Wes. {suspiciously) This is a curious story. 

Onie. A curious story? Can you have a bad thought in 
your head against me? I'd rather go away and leave you for- 
ever than you should think 

Wes. Where were you going now ? 

Onie. {aside, crushing Bella's letter) Alas ! for Bella's sake 
I cannot tell. ' 

Wes. Oh ! why don't you answer, Onie. Do not confirm 
any suspicion by your silence. 

Onie. Believe me, when I tell you truly, without a blush, I 
was going out with a motive, of which even you would ap- 
prove. 



34 N I E ! 

Wes. What was it ? 

Onie. Oh ! wait, sir ; I cannot answer now. 

Wes. Nothing can happen in this house that you should be 
afraid to tell. (^Sternly?) I cannot wait until you have invented 
a story. 

Onie. Invented ! What would you charge me with? If 
you have turned against me, tell me so plainly ; don't break my 
heart by vague suspicions — don't talk as if I was a liar and a 
thief ! I will not have it ! 

Wes. I don't wish to, Onie, but you drive me to it. Last 
night I came down stairs very late and found you up, laughing 
and talking with a young man. 

Onie. {bitterly) Do you suspect him, too? 

Wes. I doubted you ; that was enough. To-day, I return 
from a brief absence, find the house robbed, and that you have 
allowed companions of your old life to come here ; I find you 
about to depart from this house when you thought I was ab- 
sent, and you cannot or will not tell me why. 

Onie. (aside) It is for your sake I am silent. 

Wes. Oh ! Onie, I could not believe my own daughter if 
she had acted as you have done. It almost breaks my heart 
to say so, but I think it's quite time you and I said good-bye 
to one another. 

Onie. I will agree with you there, sir {going). 

Wes. I didn't mean you 

Onie. I don't know whether you wish it or not ; I don't 
care now, I will go away at once, trusting in Him whom your 
wife taught me to pray to. I will go away without anger in 
my heart against you ; for, oh, you have been very good and 
kind to me, and I shall always be grateful. 

Wes. Oh ! Onie ! Onie ! {Drops head on table.) 

Onie. I would part friends with you ; I have been trying 
hard to bear everything that you said, remembering past kind- 
nesses. You saved me when I was going to ruin ; you taught 
me what was good and made this my home. For you and 
yottrs I would do anything in the world that lay in my power, 
{excitedly) but if it had been anyone else who had cast such 
cruel slander at me, I — I think I should have killed him ! 
(Weston shritiks) I thought almost that I could turn my love 
to hate, but you must forgive me that, I know better now ; and 
if I go back alone and friendless, still I take with me all the 
good thoughts which no misfortune is likely to rob me of. 
{Enter Sidney, r., through arch, overhearing and listens in sur- 
prise^ I know I'm using strange language, {bitterly) for a girl 
who cannot give an answer to your suspicions, but I will hope 
in the time when you will know all and be sorry that you lost 
your trust in me. 



O N I E ! 35 

Sid. Why, what is she accused of? Speak, Onie, and clear 
yourself, I know you can ! 

Onie. {turns aside) I cannot — at least, not now. 

Sid. You do not fear the truth, that I'm sure of; and I don't 
know your reasons for acting thus, but they are good ones, or 
I was never more mistaken in my life. I shan't believe any 
harm in you, for one. 

Onie. Oh ! thank you, Mr. Sidney ; I can only ask you to 
keep your faith in me strong. {To Westo7i.) Good-bye. May 
I shake hands with you? {He offers his hand.) When I can 
prove that I liave been a daughter to you — honest and true— 
you'll see me again — not before! Good-bye. {Kisses his 
hand, and bursting into tears, leans against door-frame, sobbing.) 

Sid. Onie, you cannot mean what you say ; you surely will 
not go away thus characterless in a world ever ready to believe 
the worst. You have not the strength to do battle now alone. 
You do not know what enemies you will have to fight, or 
what deadly weapons to encounter. Mr. Weston, can you 
look on her and not stop her in this rashness? she looks little 
more than the child God once prompted you to save. (Weston 
starts up as if to speak, then chokes down his words.) 

Onie. {wiping away tears) I'm strong now, and I go back to 
the streets again — still a stray, and nothing more. {She dashes 
■out c. D. with great effort^ 

Sid. {starts toward the door, and exclaims) Onie ! Onie ! ! 
Onie ! ! ! {and falls on Weston's shoulder^ 




36 N I E ! 



^A^ct o. 



SCENE. — A very neat apartment, door c. Nice furniture. 
Orjiaments and mirror. Bird in cage. Table and chairs. 
Alt ornamettted screen at back. 

Enter Sidney and Gilly, c. d. 

Gil. This is her apartment, sir. 

Sid. {looking around^ It looks like her. It puzzles me 
that you, who done so much to destroy Onie's happiness, 
should be the means of bringing Mrs. Watts to justice. 

Gil. You don't believe in reformation ? 

Sid. Oh, yes, I do ; but tell me 

Gil. After the robbery of Mr. Weston's, I felt sorry to think 
of getting Onie into trouble. I knew the old gentleman 
would suspicion her and turn her into the streets for what 
Mother Watts made 7?ie do. I had a better thought then : 
Onie had been good and kept awaj' from her old companions 
for over three years, and I said, let her be, I am going to re- 
form this minute, and I did reform truly. I immediatel}^ set 
about to repair the wrong, but found my better feelings were 
too long maturing — Mr. Weston had already turned her from 
his house. 

Sid. How did you discover her whereabouts? 

Gil. Well, 3'ou see, we who have been street tramps don't 
find much trouble in that — it's instinct — we are naturally detec- 
tive. It was a pretty long search, but at last I found her and 
told the whole story. You could have held me with a straw 
then, I felt so good. Onie didn't go on, and say hard things, 
as one might expect, but in the kindest way, she says, Gilly, 
you have done me an injury, and owe me a debt for it — will 
you pay me back ? I said, I wish I could, and she said, you 
can. How? s ys I. Then she said, Gilly, c-ssry out your re- 
formation, and show that )^ou mean it, by leaving all your bad 
companions. I am going to set up a business for myself, and 
if you'll leave your evil ways and turn over a new leaf, I'll em- 
ploy you. I need an assistant. 

Sid. And you have remained with her ever since ? 

Gil. Yes, and gladly, too ; but she enjoined me from com- 
pletely repairing the wrong I had done, and made me promise 



N IE ! 37 

I would not let you or Mr. Weston know anything about her. 
I stood to that promise until to-day. 

Sid. a noble act in one we could least expect to find such a 
trait. 

Gil. If I have done any good, the praise don't belong to me 
— it was all Onie. I am learning what she tried to teach me 
years ago — that honesty and truth are the best — always ! 

Sid. I cannot understand why she wanted to keep this a 
secret from the Weston's, and most of all, from me. 

Gil. I don't know. When I asked her, she would say, an 
opportunity will offer some da)r, and then I will tell them all, 
but I cannot now, for Bella's sake. Onie will be here very 
soon, and perhaps she will tell you the reason. 

Sid. Why me^ if she will not tell you ? 

Gil. {^pointedly) That's another thing I don't know ; perhaps 
yoti can tell. If she is angry with me, you will intercede for 
me ? 

Sid. That I will. {Bell rings) 

Gil. That's Onie. 

Sid. I wouldn't like to meet her so suddenly ; can you con- 
ceal me for a few moments ? 

Gil. You can go behind that screen, if you like. Quick — 
she's here. (Sidney conceals himself behind screen) 

Enter Onie, c. d. 

Onie. Well, Gilly, have you attended to everything I told 
you ? {Laying aside hat, Ss'c) 

Gil. Yes, Miss. {Aside.) Don't she look like an angel ? — 
all she wants is wings. {Aloud, timidly.) Miss Onie, I have 
done something this morning that you didn't tell me. 

Onie. Well ? 

Gil. But, on the contrary, something you forbid me. 

Onie. What was it, tell me? 

Gil. I couldn't help it — indeed I couldn't. 

Onie. Oh ! Gilly, I hope you have not been weak enough to 
forget the promise you made to IIi7n. 

Gil. No, Miss Onie, I have broken a promise I made to 
you. You won't be angry? 

Onie. I must first know what it is. 

Gil. Say you'll forgive me. 

Onie. (laughing) Well, I'll forgive you. 

Gil. {aside) I knew she would. I believe she's got the 
wings, too. {Aloud.) This morning when I went out to de- 
liver your parcels, my road took me by Mr. Weston's house. 
I couldn't pass it, my conscience troubled me, and forgetting 
all about my promise, I went in and told him of the evil I 
had been guilty of toward )'ou. Are you angry? 

Onie. No, Gilly, I am not displeased. 



38 N I E ! 

Gil. Hurrah ! then I'm happy. I am even with Mrs. Watts, 
and have avenged you. 

Gil. Don't say that, Gilly. Revenge is wrong. When you 
saw Mr. Weston, did he speak of me — kindly? 

Gil. No ; he didn't speak at all, except to say he was a 

then he made some reference to a mill-dam, forgetting to say 
mill, and finished by sa)ring — old fool ; and then he cried. 

Onie. My dear, dear father; — and Mr. Sidney? 

Gil. He's 

Sid. {coming from behind screen) Here ! {They embrace.) 
Onie, darling, how cruel you have been, to keep yourself so 
long hidden from those who love you. 

Onie. Oh ! Sidney, I have suffered too, believe me. 

Gil. {pointedly) Ahem! If you'll excuse ;«<?, I've got a little 
business. — {They all laugh. Exit Gilly c. D.) 

SiD. After you left, every search was made, but without suc- 
cess. Onie, dear, let me hear from yo\xx own lips the whole 
story of your life since you left us. 

Onie. Would it interest you to hear it ? 

Onie. Yes ; and I can S3'mpathize deeply. 

Onie. You don't want me to tell you every little incident ? 

Sid. I insist on every little incident. 

Onie. It is a long story. 

Sid. I shall not tire of listening. 

Onie. {sits on foot stool at 'i\i\w&fi feet) As soon as I gained 
the street after I ran out the door, my brain was all in a whirl. 
The first thing I thought of was that you would follow me — 
and I was right. {Laughing.) 

Sid. How you escaped me is a mystery. 

Onie. I looked back and saw you, then I dashed into the 
thickest of the surging crowd — alwa)rs in the street on market- 
day — and felt safe, for I must go alone ! I reached the railway 
station, performing my mission there, which part of my story 
I must leave untold — 'tis a secret belonging to another, and I 
must keep it, even ixova.you. 

Sid. I can suspect what that secret is — when Gilly came to 
us, Bella told her father of her rescue from the clutches of 
that designing villain. Prowl, and he must thank you, and you 
alone, that he has a daughter. 

• Onie. I am glad ! It leaves me free to explain. After I 
left the railway station, my new life commenced in earnest — I 
was alone in a great city, but the consciousness of right made 
me strong. I set my wits to work, determined to lose no time 
in finding employment. Well, I was very lucky ; I found a 
woman, who kept a little milliner's shop, wanted an appren- 
tice. I went to her, and she was so pleased with me that she 
agreed to take me into the house, and keep me, and t-each me 
the business. I served my time faithfully, and by working at 



N I E ! 39 

night making sketches, which I sold at a neighboring stationer 
shop, I made money enough to keep me in clothes and save 
something beside. My sketches were very poorly paid for, 
however, as the stationer said so many people sought that 
means of earning a livelihood, that sketches were a drug. 

Sid. You ought to have taken them to a druggist shop then. 
(^Laughiiig\) 

Onie. You mustn't interrupt me with your puns, or I shall 
stop. 

Sid. No, no ; excuse me. 

Onie. It was not long before I concluded to start a business 
for myself — there was something so delightful in the idea of 
being my own mistress, that I jumped for joy. My mind was 
made up, so I took these rooms, and trouble commenced 
anew. My little store of money soon gave out, trade was 
dull, and sketches were more of a drug than ever — now don't 
pun again, Sidney — then hunger occasionally qame in at the 
door, but I struggled on, and sometimes when I was a whole 
week with only bread and cheese for my meals, I used to paint 
a chop on a piece of cardboard, and as I ate my bread I rubbed 
out the chop, little by little, until I had eaten ever}^ bit of it, 
and nothing but smudges remained. 

SiD. (Imighing) What ! eat bone and all ? 

Onie. I never thought of that. I wonder it didn't stick me 
in the throat and choke me. I must be more careful next 
time. 

Sid. Did you ever put too much fire on and over-cook the 
chop ? 

Onie. Oh, no ! I lived rarely during these days. {Both 
laugh.) After a while my trade increased, and I made money 
very fast, so that now I have every comfort, and money enough 
to go about sometimes giving others a little sunshine. 

Sid. An Arabian night, surely ! 

Onie. Now, I have told you all, and I must ask some ques- 
tion oi you. 

Sid. {laughing) True to your sex. 

Enter Bella, c. d. 

Onie. First, — Bella ? 

Bella, {running into Onie's arms) Owes you more than she 
can ever repay. You can speak now, Onie. Father knows 
all, and he has forgiven me the foolish act. My darling little 
sister, how you have suffered, and all — all for me. {They em- 
brace.) 

Onie. We'll never part again, Bella, dear. {Passing Bella 
to Sidney.) You love Bella as much as ever, Sidney? 

Bella, {laughing) He told me he didn't love me at all, ex- 
cept as a sister. 



40 N I E ! 

Sid. And Bella said the feeling was mutual. i^Thcy all 
laugh) 

Bella. You'll excuse me for a moment, Onie, I'll run to 
meet father, who is on his way here. I was so anxious to see 
)fOu, I ran ahead. {Exit c. D.) 

Sid. Onie, do you recollect the evening before you went 
away — the evening Mr. Weston saw us in the drawing-room, 
and was displeased ? 

Onie. {shyly) Yes. 

Sid. I wanted to say something then, but — Oh! Onie, my 
darling, I love you ! My circumstances have changed since 
we last met, and now I can give you the little house, such as I 
spoke of that night. I have gained a position in London, and 
am growing moderately rich. My income is quite three hun- 
dred pounds, and there is a fair prospect before me. I have 
schemes in my head, which, if I am unsuccessful in carrying 
them to an end, my position is good enough, and I shall be 
happ)r and satisfied, even if it does not improve very much. 
But I want a home — a helpmate, and there is but one woman 
in the world who can be to me what, my heart yearns for. 
Onie ! will you be my wife? ., 

Onie. Think, Sidney, before you ask that question seriousl)^ 
I am a stray, without family to look back upon with pride, 
while you 

Sid. I am not offering myself to j'our family, but humbly to 
you. Will )^ou be m}' wife ? 

Onie. Yes. 

Sid. I devote my life to your happiness. 

Onie. And I to yours. 

Sid. I will have two objects in m}^ life, and these will be 
sufficient — my wife and my work. 

Onie. And I have but one. 

Sid. That is 

Onie. Sidney! {They etnbr ace.) 

Enter Gilly, Weston, atid Bella, c. d. Gilly and Bella on 
either side of Weston, each holding a hand. 

Gil. I've got him ! I've got him ! Here's Mr. Weston, 
Onie! 

Bella. He's come to say how very sorr)' he is for all that 
parted )'ou and him. 

Wes. {rutmiiig to Onie, both hands extended) Can you forgive 
me? 

Onie. {taking his hands) You must not ask me to do that, 
father. What have I to forgive? What other feeling can I 
have for you than one of gratitude and love for all your care 
of me ? If you were to look into m)' heart, you would see 



N I E ! 41 

yourself there. Kiss me, my father, and say that you forgive 
me. 

Wes. With all my heart, if I have anything to forgive. 

Onie. There, we forgive each other. I didn't think you 
would believe wrong of me all your life. 

Wes. No, it was very wrong in me. Now gladden me with 
smiles, here's an old man who wants them, and whose heart 
warms at the sight. Come, young spring flowers, give old 
winter a glimpse of sunshine. 

Onie. I'll make old winter laugh too. {Kisses him.) Mrs. 
Watts, what of her ? 

Wes. Mrs. Watts is safely lodged in jail, where she will 
have ample time, I dare say, for repentance. 

Onie. For all of which you owe Gilly, some thanks. 

Gil. Here I am ; I've teformed ! 

Onie. An^ turned honest for good ! 

Gil. That I have, and Queen's evidence, too. Honesty is 
the best thing out. 

Wes. That's moral courage properly exemplified. What 
say you, shall we all leave in a party, for home ? 

Sid. Onie has given me the right to provide a home for her. 

Onie. And Sidnej'^, will share it with me. 

Wes. Hello ! Hello ! I'm Onie's father — suppose I refuse 
to consent. 

Onie. You will consent, I'm sure. (Touching him tinder 
chin.) 

Bella. Father, I don't think we can allow Sidney to go 
out of the family. 

Gil. And include me. Miss, in the same remark. 

Sid. " Love laughs at parents' stern decree." 

Onie. Father, you 7ot7/ smile on us? •' 

Gil. And me. 

Wes. Oh, Sidney ! Oh, Onie ! Well, I suppose I must, so I 
may as well do it graceful. {Joins their hands.) There, bless 
you, my children, bless you ! 

Onie. My troubles are over now. I have found a husband 
{takitig Sidney's hand), a dear, good father {taking Weston's 
hand), and 

Bella. A loving sister ! 

Gil. And I've reformed ! 

Onie. One word to you, dear public, ere our play is done ; 
will you, by kind applause, say Onie's cause is won? your 
generous approval of my little part, completes my happiness 
and gladsome make the heart, smooths the path, and cheers 
the way, assuring me, I am no longer a stray. ( Music^ 

R. Gilly. Onie. Sid. Bella. Wes. L, 

Curtain Falls. 



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